The Pirate
by Mimic Your Nightmares
Summary: Sherlock and Moriarty's childhood it brought back up with a startling incident.


Sherlock stood before the grand mirror, smirking at his own reflection as he placed the black felt hat upon his head. His curly brown locks were in disarray as he pushed the hat further onto his head, insuring it wouldn't fall off with his rambunctivity. with a slight movement in the mirror, he looked over his shoulder and into the eyes of a disapproving Mycroft.

"Mycroft! Have you come to play pirate with me?" Sherlock asked, bright eyes gleaming up at his older brother. He extended his hands towards Mycroft, fingers barely visible through the long trench coat he had on.

The fourteen-year-old Mycroft looked down at his brother in distaste. "_Must _you use Father's jacket, Sherlock?" He walked behind the young boy and pulled Sherlock out of the coat.

Sherlock turned and narrowed his eyes at Mycroft, who was tidying up the jacket. "But will you play pirates with me?"

"Sherlock, for the thousandth time, no. And would you take that frivolous hat off? My word, you are the epitome of idiocy." Mycroft nagged as he walked out of the play room, picking off pieces of lint from the fibers of the jacket.

Sherlock searched the ground for his plastic sword, and once he spotted it, slyly ran towards it, swiped it up in one fluid movement of his arm. He then made his way out of the dull mint colored room, being sure to not make the dark wooden floorboards moan as he stalked over them. He peeked from behind the corner of the wall, right next to the stairs. Just beside the front door, the hatstand was being meddled with by Mycroft, trying to be sure the ensemble was neat and orderly.

The young boy grinned with anticipation, and he made his way one by one down the polished chestnut steps of the main stariway. His older brother, being so absorbed with the process of precision and conduct, didn't hear his stalker approaching.

Now, being a mere feet behind him, Sherlock yelled his pirate war cries, and started bludgeoning his older brother with the fake sword. Mycroft jumped and was soon on the floor, hissing at his brother to stop. But, before the severity of the situation could even jump into the younger boy's mind, their father nonchalantly walked into the room. Sherlock instantly froze as he heard the clacking of the mans shoes on the floor. His gaze slowly lifted to meet the cold eyes of his father, sharply staring back at him.

"Mycroft, Sherlock, a word?" Both of the boy's hearts started pounding.

"Father, I told him we aren't supposed to be playing-"

"Enough, Mycroft! I do not have time for such childish behaviors, and none of it will be tolerated! If you two want a whipping, make one more noise. Father is having an important business meeting with very important people, do you understand?"

Both of them stayed silent, and begged to their father for mercy. The man pointed a finger at each of them, and then walked into the room, a chorus a laughter and glasses clinking together flooding out from door and abruptly stopping as the door closed.

As soon as Sherlock was sure his father couldn't hear him, he playfully poked Mycroft in the arm. "Mycroft," he whispered. "Let's play out in the garden."

Mycroft molded his lips into a fine line. "It's night. Mother said no playing outside when it's night time. If we disobey one of them a second time, we aren't going to have much time to regret it."

Sherlock snorted loudly, and Mycroft jumped as he looked towards the door. "Mycroft, if you keep living by the rules, you'll never know what you've missed. Now come on, before he comes back out in a few seconds."

Mycroft knitted his eyes in confusion. "A few seconds? Sherlock, that's absurd-" But before he could finish, Sherlock had pulled him behind the staircase, and covered his mouth. The two watched as the door opened slightly, and the stern face of their father peered out from the door, searched quickly, and slid back in.

"Now come on le-"

"Sherlock, how did you know?" Mycroft said, firmly placing his two hands on the boys white dress shirt. The younger boy looked up uncertainly at his brother.

"How didn't you? Now can we go!" Sherlock said, bouncing up and down towards the back doors.

Mycroft sighed and followed his brother, feeling more of a nanny than a boy. Just as they set foot on the dew-filled grass, a ball of flames shot out from the windows by where the dining room was, where their Mother, Father, and guests were socializing. Mycroft stood still, his mouth agape as the wind wafted the heat and smell of fire towards Mycroft, the scents weaving their way through his trimmed brown hair. Sherlock dashed into the house, making his way towards the detonated portion of the house.

"Sherlock! Get back here!' Mycroft managed to spurt out, but before he could, it was too late. His brother had disappeared into their house, obviously making his way towards the dining room.

Mycroft jogged after his brother, pleading to whatever god there was out there that his and Sherlock's parent's were okay. They weren't dead, they can't be. Besides, that only happens in fairytales, where the hero comes and saves the day..

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice cracked as he called out fro his brother. He sprinted into the room, and saw his brother kneeling down almost right in front of him.

"Sherlock.." He whispered. He bent down and scooped the 7 year old boy up into his arms. "We shouldn't be in here."

"But Mycroft! We can save them before the next bomb! We can be heroes! We'll save the-" Sherlock's watery blue grey eyes penetrated Mycroft's.

Trusting his brother's theory of a second bomb, he instantly turned away and ran with Sherlock out of the dining room, leaving the charred bodies of their parents and the strangers in the house at the time etched in Sherlock's mind. Mycroft tripped on the plastic sword lying by the front door, but caught himself with the door handle.

Once they were outside and at the end of the driveway to their secluded mansion, the second bomb went off, showering the lawn around the house in sparks and debris from the house. Mycroft's lurid face was illuminated by the fire, and the silent tears streaming down his face reflecting the blazing red and orange of the fire before them.

"Mycroft. Set me down." Sherlock whispered into his brother's shoulder.

But Mycroft tightened his grip on the younger boy. "Sherlock, you'll just run off."

Sherlock pressed his face into the hollow where Mycroft's neck met his shoulder and rested his head there, until the flash of police lights were flashing in his eyelids.

"Mycroft, it was a terrorist attack." Sherlock whispered. "Father said 'very important people'. He would've said business people if it were for business. But there were a lot of people..and Mother and Father were both dressed up nicely. Too nicely for it to be just a simple dinner. They were wearing their fine clothing, not the cheaper stuff."

Mycroft looked down at his brother's pirate hat, the only thing visible beneath their hair and Sherlock's difficult position, and half smiled. Using his free hand, he wiped a tear from his eye.

"You boys okay?" A police officer asked the older one, particularly, and when Mycroft stood as firm as a statue, he placed a pudgy hand on Mycroft's back, and led him into the back of a police car. "Just so you two are warm enough." He closed the door and pitifully looked down at the two boys.

As soon as Mycroft was situated, Sherlock scurried out of his grasp and over to the left side of the cruiser, as far away from Mycroft as he could get. Mycroft sighed with disapproval. "Sherlock..now's not a time to be playing around."

"I'm. Not. Playing." Sherlock insisted, spitting out each word with certainty Mycroft wasn't sure even he could muster up.

"Then what are you doing?" Mycroft said, turning towards his brother, who was crouched in his beige pants, and white shirt, his brown hair curling out from under the hat.

Sherlock took his hat off and threw it at his brother, who caught it with a startled look on his face. "Mycroft, I don't want to get attatched to anyone right now. Definietly not my family. I'll only get hurt."

"Sherl, that's absurd. You know just as well as I do that _nothing _will hurt either you or I right now? Not while the police are here, after all-"

The same pudgy officer who had led them into the car opened it and peeked inside. "Would this violin happen to be one of yours? It's a bit charred but maybe you'd want it as some kind of memorabilia.."

Sherlock's head whipped over to look at his beloved instrument. He looked up at the officer with a cold look on his face, almost exactly as Father's had been earlier, but his eyes were melting as he slowly unravelled himself from the ball he had contracted himself into, and gingerly grabbed it. He had been taking lessons from a family friend recently, but hasn't gotten very far into learning.

The officer half smiled and then closed the door once again. Mycroft looked out the darkened window, and to the sillouette of the officer, who was rubbing the cold out of his bare arms. Mycroft closed his eyes, wiped the tears from his cheek once more, and then wrapped his arms around his legs, pressing the black cloth of his pants up to his chest.

Sherlock glanced over quickly, analyzing his brother's movements. Mycroft probably didn't realize how much of what happened this night Sherlock truly did understand. But Sherlock knew and comprehendede almost everything about the events that had taken place this evening. After a few minutes, Sherlock started playing a few notes pizzicaso. It was quite the symphony. His odd plucking of the fragile stings, the chorus of police and firestuck sirens wailing through the doors, and the sound of muffled talking through radios the policemen were wearing.

Mycroft glanced over at his brother, eyes lightly closed, and his violing still resting on his shoulder. Then, the eldest, looked back out the window and closed his eyes as well.

25 years later

As soon as Mycroft heard about the explosion on Baker Street, which was early the next morning, he dropped everything and made his way to the flat, being sure to bring along the case he needed a solution to, as a cover in case John asked.

He walked into the flat, and his curly hair brother was sitting on one of the armchairs, plucking the stings on a new violin, pizzicaso, wiwtrh his eyes closed. Mycroft new that despite his brother's apparent healing of the situation, he was still a bit tender at the thought of their parent's death.

"Sherlock." Mycroft greeted.

"Mycroft." Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows and looking at his older brother, violin still resting gently on his shoulder. "What's the occassion?"

Mycroft frowned. "Making sure your sanity is still in tact."

Sherlock's face hardened. He knew why his brother was here, and it was a bit surprising to him that he came right out and said it.

"My sanity? I thought you said I lost it years ago." Sherlock retorted, then looked down at his violin with a look of remorse.

Mycroft made his way to sit across from his brother, and threw down the manilla folder he had brought along on the table inbetween them. "Sherlock, you're my younger brother. I'm always going to be concerned about you and your actions. It's only natural."

Sherlock looked up at his brother and then back down to his violin. "Perhaps it's time to move on from that feeling, Mycroft."

Mycroft shook his head and looked down at the table in front of him, scattered with notes and files of cases and evidence for different cases. Sherlock shouldn't have become a detective. It doens't fit him. Sherlock could've excelled at so many other fields, become an expert on the subject, or a teacher. No, Mycroft thought, he doesn't have the patience for it.

The elder of the two looked up at the dusty clock, it's hand shwich were constantly in motion indicated time was just past 8:05. "Sherlock, John should be back soon, can we get this settled?"

"I won't do this case" Sherlock shot back almost instantly, then plucked a sharp note on the violin to reinforce his statement.

"Sherlock, you _know _that isn't what I was talking about." Suddenly, the two men faced towards the door as they heard John's worried calls for Sherlock.

John entered the room, and Mycroft decided to leave soon afterwards. Sherlock smirked as he walked out of the room, and played a few notes on his violin as he walked down the stairs. Then he smiled sadly, remembering that night years ago, and then looked to John, who had erased all those bad memories from his immediate thoughts.


End file.
